A Cruel Courtship

11

Ada had just taken a soothing tisane to Margaret, having hoped to talk to her some more about their neighbour. She had been alarmed by Margaret’s state after speaking with him. That his son was hanged as a spy was horrible, but Margaret had already heard of the execution. Ada sensed that something else had deeply unsettled her. She was disappointed to find Margaret asleep.

Celia was sitting beside the bed. ‘After tossing so that I worried she’d never rest, she’s finally calmed,’ said the faithful maid.

Although glad that Margaret was resting, Ada was frustrated to be left in the dark about what had so disturbed her — yet not so much that she considered waking her. Leaving the cup with Celia, Ada had reached the head of the solar steps when she heard voices outside the hall door, and then a knock. John hurried to open the door, saying as he did so, ‘Sir Simon.’ He bowed his head with respect.

Simon gave the butler a curt nod and stepped past him into the hall. He was dressed as a soldier today and looked like one, straight-backed and grim. A stranger followed him in; he wore an unfamiliar livery, and was clearly a commoner.

Anxious to know why Simon was breaking his rule about being seen outside the castle precinct with her, Ada hurriedly descended to greet them.

‘Good day to you, Dame Ada,’ said Simon with an uncharacteristic formality. He glanced towards the fire, noticing Archie on the pallet. ‘An injured servant?’ Simon asked, walking over to see him more clearly. ‘This young man is often at the castle. Is he a member of your household?’

‘No, Simon. We found him lying in the wynd this morning,’ said Ada, grateful that Peter had not accompanied him. ‘As you can see, he was in no condition to be moved far.’

Simon grunted, ‘Drunken brawling,’ and moved away from the fire. ‘Has Peter been here — last night or this morning?’ he asked.

Ada’s heart raced. ‘No. He has not graced me with his company. Did he say he was coming to see me?’

‘No. No matter.’ Nodding to his companion, who waited by the door, Simon motioned for him to join them.

‘Can I offer you something? A cup of wine?’ Ada asked.

‘I’ll not be here so long as that. I want a word with your niece.’

‘With Maggie?’

Simon gave a curt nod.

‘Who is this man with you?’ Ada did not like the stranger’s slightly amused expression.

‘He’s a soldier in King Edward’s army,’ said Simon.

‘I guessed that. Why is he here with you? Why have you brought him here?’

The stranger glanced away, as if realising he’d offended her.

‘Fetch your niece,’ said Simon.

‘She’s been taken ill. She’s lying down and should not be disturbed.’

‘I won’t keep her long.’

‘But-’

‘Shall we go up to her?’ he asked, eyeing the steps.

‘No. I’ll ask her to join us.’

As she climbed to the solar Ada wondered what mischief Simon was about. The stranger irritated her, but Simon’s formality frightened her. It was a bad sign that he was distancing himself from her.

In the solar she found Margaret sitting up, her loosened hair tucked into a neat cap, sipping the tisane as Celia helped her into her shoes.

‘I heard,’ Margaret said. She was pale and her hand trembled as she lifted the cup to her lips. ‘What can he want?’

‘I don’t know. There’s a soldier with him in a livery I haven’t seen before. Can you walk?’

Margaret set down the cup and rose. ‘We’d better find out what he wants.’ She shook her head as Celia moved to assist. ‘Stay here. I’ll go with Ada.’

Ada could not help but admire how her young friend lifted her chin and walked over to the steps though she still lacked colour and energy. Margaret paused at the steps and motioned for Ada to go first.

‘In case I stumble,’ she said.

Dear girl, Ada thought, and said a prayer as she descended that this was some foolish whim on Simon’s part.

When Margaret had joined them, Simon glanced over at his companion. ‘Do you know this woman?’

The man nodded. ‘Dame Margaret Kerr,’ he said in a Welsh accent, ‘we meet again.’

Ada’s heart skipped a beat at the use of Margaret’s name, and she heard her companion gasp. She took Margaret’s arm to steady her and angrily demanded, ‘Simon, who is this man?’

But Simon was looking at his companion. ‘Kerr. So this is the woman you met in Perth, David?’

‘It is, my Lord.’

Simon turned back to Margaret. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

To Ada’s despair Margaret nodded. ‘He brought me news of my brother. He claimed to have escaped from the English camp at Soutra. Your sores have healed well,’ she said to the stranger.

‘I am grateful to James Comyn for his care,’ said the obnoxious David.

One of his hands was wrapped in a stained bandage. ‘I see you are not completely healed,’ said Ada. She wanted to say more, call him a liar, but that would be hypocritical in the situation, for she’d done her share of lying and did not want to chance angering God.

‘Wait without, David,’ said Simon.

The Welshman withdrew at once.

While Simon stood regarding Ada, she remained silent, unable to think of anything she might say to improve the situation.

‘Of course you knew Dame Margaret was a spy for James Comyn, Ada. You are too smart to be fooled by her.’ His voice was cool though she had no doubt of the anger he suppressed.

‘You know me well, Simon. Who was that Welshman?’

‘A spy,’ Margaret said. ‘James was right not to trust him.’

‘What I don’t understand, Dame Margaret,’ said Simon, ‘is how it came to be that you serve the Comyns while your husband was in service with the Bruces. The families are enemies. But I’m certain you know that.’

‘She knows her own mind,’ said Ada.

‘It’s almost amusing. Peter and I thought you were the spy, Ada, until the Welshman arrived and opened our eyes to your niece’s activities. She isn’t your niece at all, is she?’

‘It matters little now.’ Ada did not know whether Margaret was safer as her kin or as a friend. ‘What do you mean to do now, Simon?’

‘I should have killed you when you chose Godric.’ He said it as if he was at last coming to some decision.

Ada had no doubt he knew she’d lost her daughter shortly after birth and that Godric had left her to fend for herself. ‘You almost did. And in the end I lost everything I loved. Everything.’

‘You need not have suffered. It was your choice.’

Bastard. ‘Can you be so cold? Surely what we’ve shared in the past week has meant something to you.’ As soon as she spoke she wished she could take it back, annoyed with herself for sounding as if she were pleading with him.

‘I thought I was keeping you from spying,’ said Simon.

She could not believe his arrogance. ‘Liar.’

‘Dame Margaret Kerr.’ Ada felt Margaret stand straighter as Simon studied her. ‘I believe I know where my son has gone. He’s searching for your late husband’s friend.’

‘What friend?’ Margaret asked.

‘I am sure you know of whom I speak. Did you know that Aylmer is English? My men wanted to kill him at once, but I’d hoped to learn more about his kinsman, Robert Bruce. Curious man, Bruce, one season fighting for King Edward and amusing himself at the English court, the next season turning against his sovereign.’

‘I don’t trust him,’ said Margaret.

Ada wished she’d keep her tongue. Simon needn’t know any more about her.

‘I certainly think you’re right in not trusting the Bruce.’

‘I meant Aylmer,’ said Margaret.

‘Ah? Neither do I. Unfortunately, with most of our soldiers headed to the battlefield Aylmer managed to escape the castle. At least we think so. And I have a feeling Peter is tracking him.’

‘May they have joy of one another,’ said Margaret.

‘As I said, she is not well,’ said Ada. ‘Is that why you asked whether he’d been here — because she might have spoken with this Aylmer?’

‘I had no idea he was at the castle,’ said Margaret.

Simon regarded Margaret as if deciding whether or not to believe her. ‘Well, then,’ he said at last, ‘I shall trouble you ladies no longer.’ He bowed to Margaret, then to Ada. ‘This is, I believe, farewell, Ada.’

‘What will happen to us?’ she demanded.

‘I don’t know.’ He said it as if he’d not given it any thought. ‘At present I am needed in negotiations with the Scots. I have some hope that your nobles are about to turn on Wallace and Murray and their rabble. Then — I don’t know.’ He bobbed his head again and headed towards the door.

‘Remember me to our children,’ Ada said, hoping that would make him turn, that she might read something in his eyes.

But he did not pause.

‘Bastard,’ she hissed as the door closed behind him. ‘Lying bastard.’ Her face burned with anger and shame and she wanted to both cry and scream. ‘Forgive me, Maggie,’ she said, pushing past her, heading out to the backlands. Once outside she gulped the air. Hugging herself to try to stop the trembling, she stepped out into the sunshine and stood with head bowed, letting the sun’s warmth soak into her. She cursed herself for coming to Stirling. In Perth she had at last found peace with herself and a contentment in her life, participating again in the lives of her family by taking in various members when their lives overwhelmed them. But coming here had opened wide all the wounds she had worked so hard to heal. Damn Simon, damn him for dallying with her and then shoving her aside. He might at least have kept up the pretence of affection. All the power was in his hands, he had nothing to fear from her.

Margaret touched her on the shoulder, then held out a cup of brandywine. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

Ada shook her head, and then drank the wine down in one gulp. As it warmed her she noticed that Margaret looked more herself.

‘Have you seen aught of Aylmer?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘I’d imagined him long gone. I am going to the kirk to tell James all that has happened.’

Ada felt she should protest, being responsible for Margaret’s welfare while her young, impetuous friend was a guest in her house. ‘He does not want you going about.’

‘It is over, Ada. Whatever Simon means to do is already decided. Nothing I do will change that. I might as well go about my business.’

‘But why risk yourself?’ Ada was not ready to give up all hope of reaching Simon.

‘James might be able to advise us. I’ve had John pack food and drink for him.’

For a moment, Margaret looked so like her mother that Ada caught her breath. Perhaps it was the wimple and the signs of exhaustion on her face, but she had never so reminded Ada of Christiana before. Yet she saw a stillness in Margaret that she’d never seen in Christiana. Thinking of what Margaret had gone through with her mother’s Sight and the havoc it had caused her home life, as well as all she had suffered with her ill-suited husband, and now her widowhood, Ada felt horrible for causing yet more strife in her young life.

‘I should have turned around when James told me Simon and Peter were here,’ Ada said.

‘Should you?’ asked Margaret. ‘I don’t know that I agree.’

‘What did Ranald Allan say that frightened you so?’

Margaret glanced over in the direction of Ranald’s house. ‘Isn’t the tale of his son’s being hanged for a spy enough?’

‘And now Simon knows you came here as a spy.’

Margaret closed her eyes and nodded.

Ada still sensed there was more, but she was too drained to press her. ‘You are right, James may have some advice for us. Heaven knows we need some. Reason tells me Simon will do nothing now that he considers us exposed and thus powerless. He would gain nothing. But Peter-’

‘Simon was cruel to you,’ Margaret said, touching Ada’s shoulder. ‘I am sorry.’

Ada shrugged. ‘Go along. I’ll take care of myself. Be careful.’

She watched Margaret cross the yard to the back door. Beautiful, intelligent, courageous, and at nineteen already a widow. She wondered what would become of her dear young friend.

A strange hush had descended upon the town. Margaret sensed even more than she had the night of Johanna’s death the collectively held breath of the townsfolk as the armies massed below. She noticed Celia’s hesitation when they stepped out into the quiet market square.

‘We are not the only ones who have stayed within, out of harm’s way,’ said Margaret. ‘But today the harm came calling. It doesn’t matter whether we stay within.’

‘Where do you think Aylmer has gone?’ Celia asked.

Margaret wished she knew. Not that she had forgotten how she loathed him, but if he’d witnessed how Roger had fallen she wanted to hear it.

‘I would imagine he’s trying to escape Stirling and the battlefield below,’ she said in belated answer to Celia.

They both halted as a cry broke the silence.

Margaret laughed with relief when it resolved into a cat fight. ‘It’s so quiet they must think it’s night,’ she said.

But Celia was not about to be sidetracked with levity. ‘What did happen in the garden?’ she asked.

‘I spoke to Ranald Allan, our neighbour. I’d heard him and his wife arguing about a ring last night — one that had been long in the family. I mentioned it today — I’d watched him bury some clothes and — it was the Sight working through me — I asked whether he had also buried his son’s ring. He became furious. He was so angry’

‘What does it mean?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘I wish I knew. Huchon was betrothed. Ranald spoke as if she’d abandoned them.’

They crossed over towards the kirk and sought out Father Piers.

‘He is already in the kirk,’ said the clerk.

They crossed the yard again, to the north door, where the guard searched the basket for weapons before allowing them past.

‘They hope James comes out, but unarmed,’ Margaret muttered, trying to distract herself from the fear the nave’s enormity had caused her the night James had sought sanctuary. But the sun had broken through the clouds and the light of early afternoon softened the great expanse. Across the nave, in the south aisle, Father Piers stood over someone who knelt on the stones with head bowed. Margaret and Celia nodded to the priest and then sought out the chapel in which James was biding.

Fully dressed even to his boots, James lay dozing on his pallet. Celia gently set the basket down, but the slight noise brought him to his feet, his eyes wild, his fists ready.

‘St Columba!’ Margaret cried. ‘You startled me.’

Celia laughed nervously. ‘Master James,’ she bobbed her head.

He recognised them and relaxed his hands. ‘I dreamt I was to be hanged.’

Margaret caught Celia’s eye and knew she, too, was thinking of Huchon Allan.

‘What’s the news?’ James asked, now fully awake and seemingly glad to have company. The cleft in his chin seemed deeper and his hair was longer than his wont, swept back from his high forehead and lying softly on his collar. Margaret thought it suited him. ‘You’ve brought food?’ He’d noticed the basket.

Celia nodded, holding it out to him.

‘Have they buried Johanna?’ he asked Margaret.

‘They have,’ she said. ‘And there is more news.’

‘Not a truce, I hope?’

Margaret shook her head, smiling at his energy. ‘Come, sit and eat while I tell you all I know.’ She told him nothing of the Sight, although she did mention Huchon Allan.

‘I’d heard of his fate,’ said James. When she told him of Aylmer’s escape from the castle he shook his head at the news. ‘I’d imagined him long gone.’

What most disturbed James was Simon’s visit; he suggested that both Margaret and Ada take sanctuary with him. But Margaret reasoned once more that they had been rendered ineffectual by Archie’s injury, Johanna’s death, James’s being stuck in sanctuary, and Simon’s knowledge of their purpose.

‘How can we be of any threat to him?’ she asked. ‘We’ve nowhere to go, no one to pass messages to with the troops all around us.’

He touched her cheek. ‘True. But I should like you to stay here with me.’

Apparently taking that as a cue, Celia stood up. ‘If you have no need of me, I would like to spend some time in prayer, Mistress. I’ll be in the nave when you are ready to return to Dame Ada’s house.’

Margaret nodded. ‘I’ll find you there.’

As soon as they were alone, James leaned close to Margaret and kissed her on her forehead. ‘It could be quite innocent, your seeking sanctuary here. With me.’

He looked deep into her eyes and she could not resist moving closer. After all, she was now a widow, and James was not married. What a happy temptation amidst all the gloom.

‘Say you will stay, Maggie.’ He cupped her chin in his hand and drew her closer still, kissing her lightly on the lips. He put his arms around her and tilted her back.

He kissed her as if he’d been starving for her, and she found herself responding with delight. What else was there to do than to take what joy they might in this dark time? But as he began to fuss with the bodice of her dress she pushed his hand away, unwilling to commit a sacrilege in the kirk.

‘We are in the kirk, Jamie. Father Piers is just out in the nave.’

He desisted, but not before some final kisses. ‘My love, you must stay here with me.’

‘It will still be a kirk,’ said Margaret.

He sat up, raking back his hair. ‘You’re right, and I’m forgetting why I’m here. You must help me escape, Maggie.’

Watching him so quickly shift to his usual preoccupations, Margaret thought what a stranger he still was, and she to him, she was certain. They had shared much, but not about their hearts.

‘Jamie, do you know how Roger fell?’

James stared at her for a moment, then slowly shook his head. ‘My men found him — do you suspect them?’

‘No! By the tears of the Virgin I never considered such a thing, Jamie. I just wish — I should have looked out in the kirk yard …’ She stopped, realising how strange that might sound. She would not have had any idea that he was out there without the visions.

James rose and walked over to the window, standing silently, hands on hips, for a long while. Margaret could not know what he was thinking, but she could tell by the tension in his neck that he was angry. She joined him, not presuming to touch him.

‘Were he alive I’d curse him, but I’ll not curse the dead,’ said James in a voice tight with frustration. ‘Even from the grave he stands between us.’

‘That is not so, Jamie.’ She reached out to him. ‘If I find a way to free you, where will you go? Not to Ada’s and safety, I think.’

Now he faced her, looking into her eyes. ‘If there is time before I am needed by my kin, I would come to Ada’s.’ He pulled her into his arms.

She pressed her head against his shoulder, kissed his cheek. ‘I cannot ask more than that.’

As she and Celia were leaving the kirk, Father Piers joined them at the door. He looked drawn and sad. She recalled the man kneeling before him. Once on their way to the house, she asked Celia if she’d noticed who the man had been while she was by herself in the nave.

‘Ranald Allan. You must have stirred something in him today, for he was sobbing while he spoke to Father Piers. Perhaps he was speaking of his son.’

‘That would explain how sad Father looked.’

‘Poor man,’ said Celia.

Later, as the long early September dusk filled the hall with a soft twilight, Margaret and Celia sat by Archie, talking quietly while he slept. He’d awakened and taken some food, but his leg was causing him much pain, so Margaret did not ask questions, and soon he had slept again. It was warm by the fire, but Celia considered it unsafe to leave the injured man unattended, and John claimed he had spent enough time watching over Archie while they’d been at the kirk.

‘Head wounds are slippery things,’ said Celia. ‘It could turn against him at any time. He might slip into a deeper faint.’

‘What would we do then?’ Margaret wondered aloud.

‘Wake him, and make him move about a little,’ said Celia.

When they’d returned from the kirk they’d learned from Maus that Ada had gone out to see Dame Isabel. Margaret wished that she’d been invited to accompany her. She was considering whether to go along when John answered a timid knock.

A young woman stood in the doorway, her stance that of someone unsure of her welcome. Her head looked too large for her slender body, the effect of having her hair tucked in a white cap while her much-mended gown reached only to the top of her collar bone, thus exposing a thin, delicate neck.

‘My neighbours heard that my brother Archie has taken shelter here. Is it true?’ she asked John.

Margaret was intrigued as Celia said, ‘That is Ellen, Archie’s sister.’

As John turned for instructions, Margaret beckoned Ellen over to the fire. The young woman opened her mouth to speak, but appeared to change her mind and instead silently approached. She gave Margaret a little bow and then knelt to look at Archie, who still slept. Margaret explained how she’d found him and what his injuries had been.

‘You aren’t surprised that he picked a fight with Peter Fitzsimon?’ Margaret asked when Ellen did not respond.

‘I don’t know all my brother’s friends,’ she said.

‘But Peter has been to your house,’ said Margaret. ‘While you were there.’

Keeping her head low, Ellen glanced over at Celia. Margaret had wondered whether she would remember her. ‘We don’t fuss about who buys the ale,’ Ellen said. ‘Archie,’ she called softly to her brother. His eyelids fluttered and opened for a moment, but his eyes were unfocused and he was soon asleep again — if he’d ever actually awakened. ‘Will he wake?’ she asked, lifting one of his hands to kiss it. ‘I would have come sooner but the soldiers were all about today.’

As she leaned towards her brother, a trinket that had been tucked into her neckline slid out, shining in the lamplight. It hung on a short cord around her neck. Margaret shifted to see it better. It was a garnet ring, of a size and shape suiting a man’s fingers. Margaret kenned it was Huchon Allan’s, the one long in his family. How had Ellen come by it? For surely she was not his betrothed.

Archie’s sister’s eyes were brimming with tears when she left her brother’s side. ‘You are so kind,’ she said, averting her eyes. From Celia’s description of their earlier encounter, Ellen had not been shy, so her averted gaze intrigued Margaret.

‘We could hardly do otherwise,’ she said. ‘You are welcome to sit with him for a while.’

‘I should go. Ma needs me to watch the little ones. Will you want us to fetch him home?’

‘He can bide here as long as he needs to,’ said Margaret. ‘Has he had trouble with Peter Fitzsimon before?’

‘I don’t know. Why would he?’ Her voice was not sullen; Margaret sensed she was frightened.

‘Peter Fitzsimon didn’t worry your mother?’

Ellen edged towards the door. ‘Is there anything you would have us do? The corn’s run out so we have no coin to spare.’

But you have that ring, Margaret thought. ‘At this point he is not eating or drinking much, so you need not pay us. You are welcome to return.’ She accompanied Ellen to the door. ‘I could not help but notice the ring you wear around your neck. It’s a man’s ring. Was it your da’s?’

Ellen lifted small, work-hardened hands to her neck and tucked in the ring. ‘It’s naught but a trinket, too big for my finger.’ She shrugged. ‘God bless you, Dame Maggie,’ she murmured. John opened the door for her and she fled into the bluetinged twilight.

Margaret turned from the door, her mind churning over all that had been said as she searched for what, if anything, she had just learned. If she could trust the Sight, that was Huchon Allan’s ring. Ellen was worried about her brother, and did not wish to acknowledge knowing Peter Fitzsimon. What else? Margaret could find nothing else in it. She would like to ask Ranald whether his son had known Ellen, but she imagined Ranald was not ready to talk to her again. Perhaps she could learn something from Isabel Cowie.

‘I’m going to join Dame Ada,’ she told Celia.

‘I shouldn’t leave Archie,’ said Celia.

‘There’s no need. I don’t need a companion for such a short distance, and I’ll return with Ada.’

It was an evening of delicate colours, although the woodsmoke from below was beginning to tinge the air. Margaret wished a good evening to a woman who was sweeping just outside the door downhill from Ada’s.

‘It will be a good evening now, with the soldiers gone down to the camps,’ said the woman. ‘I thought we’d never be rid of them.’

‘You had some biding with you?’

The woman nodded. ‘And I ken who told them up at the castle that we had room to spare. I’ve been too trusting.’ With an energetic nod the woman withdrew, broom in hand.

Margaret wondered how many small feuds would linger among the townspeople after the army was gone. Turning uphill, she was just passing the Allans’s house when Maus came running up behind her from the wynd.

‘Dame Margaret!’ She caught Margaret’s arm. Her face was white, despite her exertion. ‘In the gardening shed — a body — we think it’s Dame Ada’s son!’

‘God help us!’ Margaret gathered her skirts and rushed down the wynd.

At the shed Sandy and Alec stood in the doorway, and John was within, crouching down over something on the ground. He rose and stepped back to let Margaret see what they had found.

He’d wrapped himself in some ragged, filthy bags, perhaps trying to get warm, but the amount of blood pooled round him — Margaret looked away. How would she tell Ada?

‘The knife is still in his chest,’ John said softly.

‘The young man in the hall was asking about his knife.’

‘Could he have killed Peter without knowing it?’ Margaret wondered aloud.

‘Stabbed him as he fell, in a struggle,’ John nodded. ‘It is possible.’

‘It must have been him I saw last night,’ said Sandy, ‘that bit of movement. He might have been alive if I’d gone to see. Just next door.’

‘What do we do with him?’ cried Maus. ‘If they find him here, we’ll be blamed and they’ll hang us all.’

‘Keep your wits about you,’ Margaret said, looking round the backlands. Thank God the neighbours appeared to be tucked inside their homes. ‘Leave him here while I think what to do. Close the door and secure it.’

She moved away from them, staring out into the fading light seeking a spark of the Sight, a sense of something leading her, but she felt nothing but her raw fear. Why hadn’t she seen this was coming? Why hadn’t she sensed that Archie had murdered Peter? Or that Peter was dead? She’d felt not the least shiver of knowing. She crossed herself and prayed for strength for all the household, especially Ada. Despite her disappointment in Peter, he was her son. The sight of him — Margaret turned back. Something was not right. She almost ran into John.

‘Why would he not pull out the knife?’ she asked.

‘Could he?’ The butler wiped his forehead. ‘I’ve never had a knife in me. My mistress, who is to tell her? This is a terrible, terrible thing.’

‘Bring a lamp out to the shed,’ said Margaret.

‘But we will call attention to ourselves,’ John protested.

‘God knows we’ve already risked that. Do as I say. Get Sandy if you’re too frightened to do it.’

John was obviously too frightened to care about his pride, because Sandy appeared in a moment carrying a lantern, the shutters closed. Without a word, the two returned to the shed, Margaret holding the lantern while Sandy unfastened the door and pulled it open. The odour was stronger than it had been, but she noticed it only for a moment.

‘Shine the light on his chest,’ she whispered to Sandy, then crouched down. He did as ordered and she saw now that the knife went through one of the bags. She also noted that Peter’s left hand was badly cut up. She motioned for Sandy to move the light up to Peter’s face. His eyes were closed. She looked more closely. Blood was caked on his eyelids, but she saw no wounds above his neck, so he must have touched his eyes with his bloody hands. Taking a deep breath and holding it, she pulled one of the blood-soaked bags away from his middle and found a gaping wound. The bag above it was not torn.

Feeling queasy, she struggled to her feet, grateful for Sandy’s helping hand beneath her elbow, for she quit the shed just in time to vomit without it. Afterward, she leaned her head against the wall and let the night air cool what it could. Had Sandy not been hovering about her she would have torn off her wimple to feel the breeze in her hair. Death was horrible enough, but violent death was a vision of hell. Peter’s fellow men had torn his body like that. He’d been a difficult man, hard, but she’d thought that of James before she’d joined his cause. Had Peter been fighting for the return of King John Balliol she would have thought him a brave man, committed to a righteous cause.

‘Do you want to see any more?’ Sandy asked. ‘I’ve pulled aside the bags and see no more wounds.’

They both started as faint shouts rode the night breeze. ‘Would that he were down in the camps with the others,’ Margaret said.

‘Aye.’

‘Take a good look at the knife’s hilt, so that you can describe it to me,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll leave him in peace for now.’

Ada might wish to see him. Margaret must tell her, but the thought of going to Isabel’s house filled her with a strange weariness.

‘I must clean myself,’ she told Sandy. ‘Ask Celia to come to the kitchen.’

The servants shrank from Margaret as she stepped into the kitchen. She hadn’t realised she was cold until the warmth enveloped her.

‘I need hot water to wash in,’ she told Alec. ‘And an old cloth.’

Celia gasped when she saw her mistress.

‘I am unharmed, Celia, but you’ll have some work washing this from me.’ In the light Margaret now saw that she had blood on her sleeves and on her skirt, as well as on her hands. She could just imagine the state of her wimple.

‘I’ll fetch some clothes,’ said Celia.

‘I’ll come into the hall.’

Celia shook her head. ‘No, don’t. Ellen has returned. With Evota. I’ll bring your clothes here.’

Margaret was dismayed that they had visitors in the hall, with the servants overwrought, as well they should be. Surely even in their concern for Archie, Evota and Ellen would notice something odd. ‘How long have they been here? What do they want?’

‘They’ve not been here long,’ said Celia. ‘Evota came to see her son, but Ellen took me aside and said she must talk to you. I’d thought to fetch you from Isabel’s if you didn’t return soon.’

‘We must hurry then. At least they are there to sit with Archie.’

Celia hurried out.

When at last Margaret entered the hall, she was touched by the tender scene beside the fire. Evota sat on the pallet, Archie’s head on her lap, and as she rocked him gently she sang a wordless song, a lovely tune. Ellen glanced over and nodded a greeting, but Evota caught the movement and paused in her song, though still she rocked her son. Margaret took a deep breath, willing herself to forget the dead man in the shed for a while, and crossed the room to the three.

‘God bless you for saving my son,’ said Evota.

‘I pray that he is soon as he was,’ said Margaret. She took a seat on a stool between the two women. The firelight shadowed Evota’s face, but Margaret could see that Ellen favoured her mother with her delicate features, although in the mother’s worn face they were puffy and embedded in wrinkles. Yet the woman must be younger than Ada.

‘Always fighting, like his da.’ Evota shook her head and traced the bandage on her son’s forehead with a finger.

‘I would speak with you, Dame Maggie,’ Ellen said. ‘Alone. Ma will sit with my brother.’

Where in this house might they talk alone, Margaret wondered. She did not dare take Ellen into the backland.

‘I know that my daughter wishes to talk to you,’ said Evota, making it clear by her tone that she didn’t approve, but had resigned herself to it.

‘Let’s retire to the corner,’ Margaret suggested.

‘It’s about your husband’s death,’ said Ellen, at last looking squarely at Margaret.

Aylmer, Margaret thought, she’s spoken to him. She led the way to the corner, out of the light.